they're all dead hearts to you
by Coins Compressed
Summary: Russia steals America's heart away, literally. /oneshot.


**an: **an extremely old piece originally posted at the kink meme; i do not subscribe to the fanon that russia is insane, rather, that all nations are capable of malice. this can be read as rusame if wished, but i just wanted to write something creepy uvu

**warning: **gore and 'death'

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**they're all dead hearts to you**

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They're both smiling as Russia pulls the knife back.

America isn't even aware that he's been stabbed – that is, until he realises he's been sliced completely open. Russia has learned from the best, namely, his sisters. They have always been good with weaponry and slaughter.

America gasps, suspended in the air where he'd been skewered before. The gasp resonates, and when it turns into words Russia can only expand his smile.

"No… no fair. I wasn't looking."

And then America collapses with an almighty smack, streams of blood and fragments of bone leaping from his open chest as he hits the ground. Maybe he's broken his spine from the impact – but, then again, America has always been strong. Russia is surprised he managed to get the blade past America's skin at all.

It seems nobody is invincible. When America stops twitching and writhing, lying quite still, Russia walks towards America's body.

The knife gleams, still soaked, resting peacefully by America's elbow. Russia kneels, taking care to avoid the knife so he doesn't graze his knees against its edge. He plunges his hands into the gaping cavity of America's chest – the torn fibres of his skin, the whirl and mess of his broken skeleton and pulped organs.

Though it's a struggle, he manages to pull apart the flesh even more, to see everything on display beneath his hands. Once he's satisfied with how much he can see, Russia relaxes, taking a moment to stare further into the muddle and mess of cartilage and bone- searching for the one thing he really wants.

His gloves are getting drenched red. How inconsiderate.

It takes a lot to truly kill one of _their_ kind, and America is therefore still alive, even though being ripped apart would kill any lesser being. America is too weak now to move his body, or attempt to get rid of the invading fingers inside his chest – but he's able to watch.

So he's staring. He's staring as Russia's hands mix with his insides and run along the jagged edges of his ribcage; he's staring as Russia tries to make America stop breathing because his lungs are distracting.

Those eyes of America's are summer-sky blue, stunning. Russia might take them next.

Continuing to beat, even though the blood isn't going into arteries like it's supposed to anymore, America's heart looks ever so appealing. The lungs _finally_ stop moving when Russia slips his fingers underneath the mass of the heart in question, loosely attached to the wounded aorta, weakening _venae cavae_.

Then Russia pulls. The force of the tug is enough to rip America's heart right out of America's body.

It's not a clean break by any means because there are veins and arteries attached, parts of the body that Russia doesn't know and can't name, but they slap against him as he gets to his feet. The feeling delights him so he shakes his hands, to make the heart dance atop his palms.

Russia takes to kneading the muscle between his fingers, and the way it contracts makes him smile fondly. America's heart feels like his own heart.

It's all sorts of pretty colours. Cold blues and oxygen reds and bruised purples; gorgeous. When Russia digs his fingertips into the fleshy mass, his grip is met with no resistance.

It spits blood from the heartstrings and that makes him angry, because hasn't anyone ever told America that it's rude to spit at people?

He holds it, precious, in the palms of his hands and lifts it to his mouth, to press his tongue to the thin layer of blood, _watery_, to the thicker flesh of the heart's body. He feels it spasm against his tongue; deep, hollow beats that remind him America isn't quite dead yet. Russia licks at the pulse as he gently strokes the apex, crimson, with the gloved pads of his thumbs.

America's heart tastes nicer than Russia's heart. He likes it. He considers sharing the taste with America, but America isn't moving much anymore- America won't last long without his heart; he'll die and he'll have to grow another one, and Russia doesn't mind because he wants to keep _this_ one forever.

It stops beating as Russia presses his lips to it again. America's chest is starting to heal, his organs are about to rearrange and there's a new heart forming between those insufferable lungs of his. America will no doubt be annoyed when he wakes (in pain and disorientated) because Russia made him grow it, even though it's so difficult and it takes so much _time_ – they are at war, after all, so all is fair.

Knowing that America is dead, just for a little while, Russia supposes it's all right to tell him aloud how handsome his heart is.

It's comparable to his face.

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**x-x**


End file.
